Flat Character
by Delgodess
Summary: When I'd imagined falling into a fictional world, I'd imagined that I'd appear with some sort of edge. I'd never imagined I'd end up with nothing. A fiction written in short snippets.
1. Morbidly Poetic

**Flat Character**

* * *

**Summary:** When I'd imagined falling into a fictional world, I'd imagined that I'd appear with some sort of edge. I'd never imagined I'd end up with nothing. A fiction written in short snippets.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of **_**The Batman**_** franchise.**

* * *

**One:**

_To be a part of something greater, if only in your own mind._

_(because everyone has entertained this thought, no matter how fleetingly.)_

_-Anonymous_

* * *

Gotham was a city. Like New York, London, Sydney. But it was also _more_. It was a place of extreme opposites; of bedtime heroes and waking nightmares. Its crimes were more violent, its fear: an actuality. Insanity cultivated by hopelessness. Like a mother who didn't care for its offspring, it left its residents destitute.

And then there was me. Child of white tipped mountains and thin, crisp air, I was cast into her filthy, unfeeling arms without warning; without cause.

I had nothing. Not even clothes on my back. The policeman had bluntly informed me that streaking was a punishable offence, neglecting to mention how dangerous it was to be naked in negative three degree weather. That I had been found buried in a snow drift, built up by days of snowplows, was left unsaid.

Unquestioned.

After a haggard on-call medic outfitted me with a shock blanket and assured the bored-looking police officer that his charge was free of the effects of hyperthermia and would not, in fact, need hospital assistance, I was then unceremoniously shoved into the back of a patrol car.

The station had been warm, the threadbare clothes ill-fitting and the paperwork unsympathetic. No one came for me. No one talked to me. After my fingerprints and photograph were taken (an unflattering mug-shot I would later discover), I was given a pen and a standard identification form. I filled it out to the best of my ability and handed it in to the officer at the front desk, struggling to get by the sudden rush of uniformed bodies that streamed though the front entrance. The secretary distractedly mentioned that the department would do a follow-up sometime in the next week, gesturing hurriedly at a bulletin board on the far wall. It was littered with cheep apartment listings, potential job opportunities and the addresses of a few homeless shelters who might take me in until I got my feet. Then I was shown the door.

The empty, ice encased steps looked treacherous, the freezing streets: bleak. Even the buildings overhead seemed to loom, dark with something I could not bear to name.

And though I could wax infinite poetic descriptions of the place I now found myself in, reality pushed aside shock long enough for me to _feel_ the cold wetness of the snow enveloping my ragged, miss-sized sneakers, _taste_ the sharp bite of the cold winter air and _hear_ what had caused the commotion in the GCPD.

_They'd caught Him._

_They'd caught The Batman._


	2. It's a Hero

The warmth of the building I'd just exited enveloped me once more, my body moving without conscious thought. Sound startled me, as if my world had been on mute. Phones rang, keyboards clicked and voices layered over each other in a confusing mess, each demanding news from static radios.

My ears picked out faint pieces; the startling puzzle that had woken me from my shock induced trance, slowly falling together.

_-Joker apprehended, fire in-_

_-e looks to be injured-_

_-Batman-_

_-'er closing-_

_-position-_

Tense muscles in my shoulders refused to relax. Information was inconclusive at this point. I moved again, drifting along as if I'm meant to be there, observing the chaotic jumble of the police station with new eyes. Almost no one was stationary, every person up in a flurry of anxious movement. I move to mingle with them, strides quick and purposeful as I twist, sidestep and slip my way around distracted officers.

I try to keep out of the way as much as possible, spotting a nearby bathroom along the next wall. Static sparks again, but I can't stop in the middle of the hallway; I need to reach the door before I'm seen.

_-ot him!-_

_-e's out cold-_

_-bringing him in-_

'What_ am I doing?_'

Hurrying into a stall and clicking the door shut doesn't bring me any relief. My heart pounds and I curl my cold hands to my chest; trying to fold them into the faded fabric of the brown hoodie I'd been given. My wet sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor. The air smells like piss. I swallow, but my mouth remains dry.

'_I can't go back out there! I can't-_!'

The bathroom door opens and a harsh voice barks out. "We got him!"

It's a man's.

Horror fills me as a younger one answers, skeptical. "Did we really? He's been pretty hard to catch so far…"

"Yeah! The boys just called it over the wire. They're bringing him here."

A zip and the shifting fabric. Then a sigh as liquid trickles. I try to keep still, resisting the urge to hop up onto the toilet seat.

"How much longer?"

Another sigh. My breath sticks in my throat and I stare fixatedly at the horrid olive-green stall door.

"They said fifteen, ten minutes ago."

The sound of flushing and shuffling feet indicates their departure and I take a moment to suck in oxygen. Then I _move_. I don't look at the urinals on the wall out of principal- as if I need another reminder.

Ducking out is quick; darting behind a convenient file cabinet is quicker. My sight flickers over the restless faces revolving about the room. Then the two double doors directly across from me burst open. The eyes of the panting, disheveled officer standing in the threshold meet my gaze head on- and then slide away like water over ice.

I'm lucid enough to be disturbed by the twinge of unease that settles in my gut, but something is happening, something monumental and I can feel the greatness of it building in the room.

Time stops. And for one moment, my world crashes down on me because '_Good _God_, he's not real, he can't be, he's a _**Comic Book Hero**_._'

But three burly men are lifting Bruce Wayne, no, lifting _Batman_, dragging his unresponsive form around the raised walkway of the open spaced room. The tenants of the cubic offices down below suddenly grow silent, all eyes watching. The sudden absence of sound only enhances the Christmas music filtering in though someone's speakers, the noise like a macabre march.

I barely notice other people entering the room; too absorbed in shrinking into the wall when I realize that they're going to pass me.

There is a tremor in my limbs, an uncontrollable shaking as I finally, _finally_, grasp what all of this means; for myself and for Gotham.

They pass me, his worn, tattered cloak flapping limply. My hand reaches out almost on its own and - carefully, like a vision that will shatter- I touch him. It's ridiculously unreal, but the Kevlar is rough, the belt, smooth. Then something whirls and there is the tiniest of clicks.

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

Flinching as if struck, my head whips up, blond hair obscuring my vision until its caught in the strikingly direct gaze of one who can only be a young James Gordon.

I bolt for the nearest exit.


	3. Help Needed

Snow flurries into my face and I skid, desperately trying to round a dark corner. I'm freezing, the ends of the gray sweatpants I'm wearing fluttering around my ankles, threatening to trip me. If I had time and the means, I'd have tided them down. It's irrelevant, however, especially when I can still hear shouts behind me. An alarm siren begins to blare, echoing eerily off the buildings I dart past.

I shouldn't have run. It was stupid, but panic had seized me in its unrelenting grip and I'd just _reacted_. I didn't think my mad dash would've been enough to set off alarms, but this is Gotham, and I am woefully out of depth. It would have been perfectly reasonable to say that I just had to use the bathroom, and as for not using the public restrooms near the exit? Well, they were locked. And everyone was in the backroom so… Ok, maybe that was a bit too much detail and I should just stick to simple sentences. Still-

A shadow moves in the corner of my eye and I leapt to the side, something large and black swooping down from above, landing with an unflattering smack against the hard ground. My hip slams into a nearby dumpster and I slip, falling unceremoniously to the floor, a pained moan pulling from my mouth. The sirens still blare in the distance, the ringing of police cars a distorted echo off so many buildings. I shuffle forward on my hands and knees, the tips of my fingers burning in the cold. My arm bumps against something and I rear back, squinting into the darkness. What I see frightens me, despite recognizing it immediately: It's the Caped Crusader.

He isn't moving.

Inching closer, I shudder, awed and terrified in equal measure. I'd been running in this direction for at least ten minutes; for him to suddenly _appear_…the sheer speed the man would have had to possess… especially to escape wherever they were keeping him _and_ to make it this far into the city in his condition…

Unbelievable.

The movement was thoughtless; a result of stress and anxiety. I would have never reached out otherwise. My helping hand is caught in an action too fast to follow, a sudden, sharp pain in my restrained wrist making me yelp. I look up to see The Batman looming over me, a dark and horrifying silhouette. I shrink away, suddenly wondering if _this_ is what all thugs feel before they go down. A moment passes and I realize that I _am_ moving, but not backwards, _forwards_. Batman is teetering and pulling me down with him. I yelp once again, stupidly trying to steady him. He doesn't let me, twisting my wrist back towards my arm so that I'm forced to kneel. Snow whirls up around our shuffling feet, kicking up into my downturned face.

"Stop!" I try to shout, the word a strangled beg in my throat.

He releases me and I scramble away, scooting through the snow until my back is pressed up against the freezing metal of dumpster from before. My eyes are wide, my mouth expelling pants into the cold night air. I'm _still_ shaking and it doesn't occur to me to be surprised that he's let me go. I'm too busy staring at him slumped against the far wall.

For a moment, I'm struck with indecision. I know what I _should_ do; the right thing to do. But I'm afraid. I shouldn't _be here_ and he's already _hurt_ me-

-but the alternative is facing Gotham alone.

So I try again, this time carefully. My hands move out in the universal sign of no harm- palms up, arms out- and I speak, words soft.

"You need help."

His masked head snaps up, armored chest moving in time with his haggard breathing. I know the exact moment his eyes lock on me. It's the same feeling of unease I felt when the officer looked at me, the same one as when Jim Gordon called out. Goose bumps along my skin, shivers down my spine and as cliché as it sounds, hair rising on the back of my neck. All the signs of an adrenaline-pumping heightened awareness, a sixth sense telling me _I shouldn't be here_.

This feeling settles uneasily in my gut, the strange wrongness at being noticed, being seen.

It makes my eyes narrow and my mouth go dry. I swallow and try again.

"You're hurt. Let me _help_ _you_."

His breathing slows, features obscured in the shadows. My body fidgets, melted snow leaking into my shoes. My hands are still outreached, even though the muscles of my right arm have begun to twitch unpleasantly, wrist throbbing with a dull ache.

Then there is movement. His head angles in the tiniest of nods.

I try not to reach out quickly this time, but he teeters unexpectedly, bulky frame pushing awkwardly from the wall. There isn't much space in this alley, so it's easy to grab him, swinging a shoulder under one large arm for support. He's taller than me, of course he is, but I hadn't realized what that would mean for his weight. I grit my teeth as he sags, planting my feet. He smells like sweat and burnt plastic.

"Where?"

I don't expect him to answer, but he does, voice gritty as he gestures tiredly off to the side.

"Back alley, two streets over."

The journey is made with slowly dragging feet, his weight seeming to rest more and more on me as we continue. My heart is in my throat the whole time, eyes darting everywhere. I'd blame my paranoia for not seeing it, but it was pitch black at the alley's dead end and the light was sudden and bright.

I gasp as the Batmobile revs up in front of me, headlights flashing, door swishing upwards with a hiss. My fingers fist in his cloak when Batman abruptly slumps, large hand dropping away from my shoulder. My eyes widen when I glance up at his face to see that his own are closed.

"God damn it!" I snarl, tugging at him. "Wake up! _Bat's_, come on, don't do this to me."

He doesn't listen. Unconscious people tend to be like that.

The police sirens, which haven't abated this entire time- what had it been? Five minutes, ten? - seem louder, the sharp scrape of tires on wet asphalt echoing in the air.

Huffing, I struggle with renewed vigor, sweating under my flimsy clothing. I drag him to the door, straining backwards, feet slipping. And then-

-and then I tumble, two hundred some odd pounds of ass kicking Bat crushing me into the surprisingly plush leather of the driver's seat.

I just lay there for a moment, breathing harshly though my frozen nose. Laughter bubbles up at the absurdity of it all, but I stifle it, instead putting the energy into attempting to move. I don't get far and only succeed in pulling his propped feet into the vehicle.

There is a beep, followed by a swoosh.

My breath catches.

My heart sinks.

And I my head meets leather with a dull thud. I'm locked in the Batmobile with an unconscious Batman.

Lights flickers overhead, red and blue and yellow against the black of car's ceiling. I hear the slam of car doors, the deep calls of men's voices. They've found us, but I can't move, can barely breathe. My shallow breaths are catching in my throat, eyes rolling franticly over the lit dashboard.

"Autopilot, where's the autopilot?" I mutter, struggling to reach my free, if injured, hand through a gap between our bodies towards the humming knobs.

You'd think it'd be easy to find, because the Batmobile is just a car after all, but the whole thing looks like the inside of a spaceship; can't understand shit. My hand hovers over the keys, eyes staring at them with intense concentration. The feeling of something wet hitting me in the face throws me and I gasp, inadvertently getting some of the unknown liquid into my mouth. I sputter at the taste, jerking my head back up just in time to catch another splatter of it as the dark, coppery liquid leaks from between the armored plating of Batman's suit.

Alarms blare within my head, my wide eyes widen even more and I do what was bound to be stupidity at its finest.

I press random buttons.

No.

I _mash_ them.

Things click, the car shutters, something explodes and suddenly there is a jarring motion as the Bats' car peels out, the lingering shouts of angry policemen and rippling gunfire pushing my heart rate to new, undiscovered heights.

I slide with the movement of the car, pushing up with my hands so I can both breathe and stem the blood flow of the now, very obvious, wound. I stifle another hysterical giggle.

The Batman is bleeding all over me.

_Not good_.

It takes what seems to be an eternity before the sickening feeling of rushing movement stops, before the door props open with a hiss and clinical white light flashes though the opening with enough suddenness to blind me.

I hear a hauntingly familiar voice-

"Welcome home Master-"

-before I pass out from cold, exhaustion and relief.


	4. Justified?

I wake up with a pounding headache and immediately try to soothe it away, only to find that I can't.

My eyes open, squinting at a bright white light hanging over me, before focusing down at myself. I'm naked, save for a white button-down shirt that feels too much like silk, and covered by a thick woolen blanket. My bed is not so much a bed as it is a gurney, an uncomfortable one, and when I breathe in, the air feels cold and moist. The grey fabric covering me slides as I try to shift, my attention drawn to what's restricting my movements. I'm tied down, leather straps wrapped around my ankles and pinning my bandaged right wrist to a safety bar. My left arm is surprisingly loose, the tie placed over my skin, but unbuckled, as if it was just…forgotten.

Then I hear them.

"-must eat something, and with the nights events, I fear you haven't been giving your injuries proper attention."

"I'll be fine."

"I must insist, Master Bruce-"

There is silence for a moment and then a sharp sigh.

"Not to worry. I've given her a mild sedative. She won't wake until the IV is removed."

My gaze flickers from where I'd been focusing, glancing at the unattached IV stand to my left, eyebrows rising slightly before returning my sight to the dark cave wall and the steel walkway that loops around it. I still, air stuck in my throat.

The Bat Cave.

My head moves, taking in what I can see. It's familiar, in the uncomfortable way that a lot of things are starting to become familiar, and I swallow.

"Did you find anything?"

I force back a jump at Bruce Wayne's sudden question, gaze darting to the side. My clothes are folded and dry on a metal seat next to me. My free hand quickly reaches over to the buckle securing my right arm.

"Not exactly, sir. I took the liberty of running her face through the database. These are records filed by the GCPD, but it seems as if they were only taken a few hours ago."

"They're incomplete."

"It would seem so, but that is not the most disturbing find, sir."

I finish pulling the hoodie over the worn fabric of my old shirt, the tail ends of the silk one hiding beneath the edge of my sweatpants where I'd stuffed it to conserve warmth. I wince as I shove my feet back into the ill-fitting shoes, hoping desperately that they wouldn't squeak against the grated metal floor.

"This is the video footage of the police station when you were captured. It coincides with the timestamp on these forms."

"Wait- rewind it. There! Stop."

Something whirls and clicks, then Jim Gordon's voice rings out, the sound interspaced with static as the video replays.

"Can you see it, Alfred?"

I duck behind a stair case, crouching. _Oh_, how I wanted _so badly_ to sneak a peek at the famed Bat Computer.

"It's fuzzy, but…it looks like an after image. Like on an old photograph. Is it a girl?"

"Yes. It's got to be her."

My shoe slips and I almost lose it over the edge of a railing, biting my lip instead of biting off a curse. The acoustics in here are great for eavesdropping, not so much for sneaking off.

"Her, Master Bruce?"

"Yes, the woman who… Alfred? What do you remember of the last hour and a half?"

Wide-eyed at the suspiciously flat tone, I scamper quickly around the corner, franticly wishing that my luck will hold long enough for me to _get out_.

"I- well, you arrived back in the Batmobile. You were… injured and unconscious, but had somehow managed to… I treated you and then…"

Their voices have faded somewhat, probably a sound dampener so you can't hear anything up in the Mansion. I still flinch when the lever I grab sparks, something emitting a low hum in the distance.

"And then… I used the database to… Master Bruce it seems I can't-."

My heart rate skyrockets, pulse pounding in my ears.

"Stay here, Alfred."

But I am already across the cave, through the tunnel and behind the grate, the red light of the elevator flickering as it moves steadily upward.

* * *

How I made it back to Gotham without the Bat's catching me will forever remain a mystery. I can only assume that like with Alfred, he simply… forgot.

It was a common trend in the next few weeks.

People just didn't seem to notice me. On the streets, they would walk around me like a river moves around a bolder; in a café, sit down at my table like I hadn't taken the fourth seat. When I went to the precinct to look over the listings, even the police didn't remember me. Like the faded posters on the brick walls of Crime Alley, I was simply _there_. A 2D image that you could see, but until you interacted with it, didn't have much three-dimension. And just as easily forgotten.

It made finding work a problem.

Every interviewer I met with didn't remember me the next day. I'd been ran out more than a few times, suspicious eyes following me until they seemed to lose focus and blink my image away. Being an average sized white girl didn't make it any easier. I was lucky to just barely be on the nicer side of pretty and that I'd cut my hair into short blond spikes to look more masculine in my thick winter clothes.

I'd taken to picking up day jobs, hands on things, where it didn't matter who or what you were; things that I remained in sight for, so my employers wouldn't have a chance to forget me.

And while I wouldn't say that finding shelter was easier, _per se_, it was _hard_ finding cheep hotel rooms, sleeping in shelters or worse, on the streets; especially in the winter. What's more, this was _Gotham_. People were afraid and cautious to the point of being critically paranoid.

You could stand on a street corner and be witness to no less than four crimes within the space of a few minutes, most times, more.

There were the Gangs and the Mafia and the _Rogues_.

God, the _Rogues_.

They destroyed things, killed people, and stole more than just money.

How anyone could stand to live in such a volatile place was beyond me.

Without a doubt, Gotham was sick.

The decision to leave wasn't even something to think about. I didn't need to buy a train ticket, or rent a taxi. I could just hop in and be taken wherever, without the pay, because who would remember me anyway?

I wanted to get out, and even though I hated cities, I wanted to see Metropolis, maybe catch a glimpse of Superman. How cool would that be? Walk into the Daily Planet, plop myself in front of Clark Kent and then loudly thank him for being such an awesome super hero. And the best thing? After a few minutes, no one would remember.

I could _literally_ go _anywhere_, do _anything_.

Except, I _couldn't_.

Every time I tried to leave Gotham, something happens to prevent it.

The train breaks down. The taxi gets a flat tire. The plane is full. Even trying to walk out doesn't work, what with the mother of all snowstorms plaguing us with her indomitable fury.

So I found myself stuck and without any means.

* * *

The first time I stole, it was because I was hungry.

Every time after that, it was because I felt justified.

People always argue that if you are in a bad situation, it is your responsibility to make it better. Unemployed? Get a job. Uneducated? Get your GED. Addicted? Get help.

I get it. It makes sense; and had I been in any other situation, I would have jumped through all the appropriate hoops.

I can say, in good conscience, that I am a good person. I have never deliberately behaved or acted maliciously towards anyone. I may have thought ill about some people, but everyone has been annoyed or angry at some point.

Stealing is wrong.

I know it. But here's the thing: _I can't get help_.

People. don't. _see_. me.

You'd think it'd be a boon, right?

Maybe for a criminal, but I'm not a criminal. I don't want to be a criminal.

I only take what I need, nothing more.

It doesn't help that this is all supposed to be a fictional world.

It doesn't help that I can't remember my name.

It doesn't help that I have memories of a story, a Plot, with fractured timelines that make no sense in the grand scheme of things, with profiles of every major and minor player that has _ever_ been mentioned on the tip of my tongue, waiting to spill out.

It doesn't help that I'm alone.

It doesn't help.

I could have everything I ever wanted, and yet still have nothing at all.


	5. Meeting a Bird

The first time I meet Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, I'm standing in his museum, staring at an aquarium full of jellyfish. They are dreadfully exotic, with long, lacelike tendrils that float behind them in lingering waves. I am captivated.

"Beautiful, are they not?"

I'm much too tired to jump at the soft spoken voice, but not too tired to be confused. It takes a moment to place it, and the image reflected in the glass.

He is not what I expected. Short, yes, with angular features and a pointed nose but… Where is the stout, balding man, with his cynical, brash personality and cockney accent? True, the man reflected in these clear, watery planes had all the trademark attributes, but he is small, sickly…diminutive. And young. Certainly not what should have been. The world has just shifted on its axis, yet another thing familiar, but out of place.

I nod slowly.

"They are."

We stand together for a long moment, long enough for me to think he's looked away and I've disappeared again, but it seems he was merely biding his time. It is this uncharacteristic show of patience and remarkable amount to tolerance to my silence that cues me to his affable mood. When next he speaks, I make sure to look at him.

"Might I ask why you are on my property so early in the morning?"

The question is deceptively mild, much like his appearance, and I can feel my hackles rise because of it. I don't know this bird, not the way I knew the other one. I have a vague idea of how he'll react, but I don't know if it is enough.

For a moment, I think to lie, but then I shrug. He'll forget anyway.

"Couldn't sleep."

A brow lifts, incredulous and thin without the bottle glass monocle that so characterized his other face. He leans his gawky, stunted form on the cane of his umbrella, tisking. I shrug again.

"And I mean to rob you."

"What?" The statement is almost a squawk, uncannily bird like, and his posture goes from relaxed to threatening in an instant. I bite my lip and shrug for the third time, seemingly unaffected.

"Just the chocolates from off the cream cake. I wanted to see the reaction."

His beady eyes glint and narrow, blue marbles against a riverbed. Pale hands lift to straighten the collar of his pressed suit, features unfailingly blank.

His head tilts.

Then he smiles, an odd little smile, all thin lips and no teeth.

I eye it rather warily, before turning back to the glass. I don't know if I can die while like this, but I'd rather not find out.

It's time to go.

I breathe on the aquarium, fogging it, before drawing a heart and writing_ 'I was here.'_ in the center.

Then I turn and walk past him, patting him carefully on the shoulder as I go by.

"Night, Ozie."

When he whirls around, livid, he is slack jawed to find nothing but empty space.


	6. Tis a Puzzlement

I hadn't realized Edward Nigma still worked for the police department.

I hadn't planned to be here, in this room, either. I'd just been doing my city rounds, looking at the job boards, hoping to find a score on one of the apartment listings. This precinct was up.

Then James Gordon walked by.

I was wearing different clothes last time he'd seen me and while my back was turned, I still had a bright red beanie stuffed on my head. It wasn't inconspicuous, because most of the time that's more of a problem then I need, but I wished that I'd just picked the nice grey one, even as I resist the urge to duck and cover, making myself stare straight ahead as the man passes behind me.

Sending up a mental curse when the guy lingers in the entryway, talking to another officer, I decide to slide quickly into the back room to look for another way out. I'm aware that I'm acting too bizarre, skirting around the edges like a guilty dog, especially in an area filled with people on the lookout for odd things. So I steal into the first dark, unoccupied room I can find.

Which leads me to this predicament.

The place looks so ordinary, so _atypical_, that for a long moment, I don't see it. And honestly? If I hadn't entered the room the way I had, I never would have.

The furniture is arranged strangely, when looked at an angle. The papers pinned on the corkboard across the way seem to twist and spin. Even the things on the desk appear out of place, despite the fact that they all belong there.

I have to blink the strangeness from my eyes.

I round the desk, careful not to touch anything, wet boots tapping lightly against the tile flooring. The computer screen is suspiciously blank for a workday and when I dare to reach out and press a key, it lights up with text, soundless and green.

Password protected.

I stare blankly for a second, before I huff, rolling my eyes. I'm in a government agency. Of course employees have to log in.

But I am _so_ tempted.

The computer screen blinks lazily at me, the shiny surface begging to be marred by an invisible ink.

My hand twitches and I lean forward _ever_ so slightly. The corner of my mouth lifts. I blame the urge on my inability to make any real impact on the world in which I live. And even though I'm not stupid enough to interfere with anything remotely important, I still want this. This tiny token, just for myself.

So I breathe and the glass fogs. My finger traces out the mocking symbol, then the words.

Satisfied, I straighten, nearly knocking a coffee cup covered with sticky notes off the desk with my elbow. I catch it, barely, and place it back where it belongs. But just as I step away to leave, one of the notes flakes off. There's something underneath the green slips of paper, drawn in black marker.

The doorknob rattles and my attention snaps up.

I'm in the small space behind the door when it opens, stifling my breath. I can see the silhouette of a man on the other side of the frosted privacy window and know the exact moment he freezes, hand fixed on the doorknob as something catches his attention.

I still too, our eyes undoubtedly stuck on the same thing.

My wet foot prints.

One minute passes, two, and then he shifts to shut the door behind him. I try to match his breathing on the off chance that he won't find me, but the soft click of the latch catching sounds with a kind of finality I don't like.

He's turned around before I can make a bolt for the handle, a stack of files falling from his hands as he takes two steps towards me. And his eyes are focused directly on my face, bright green and unblinking, staring behind black frames, watching with an intensity not unlike witnessing someone suffocate; because it's been so long since someone has actually _looked_ _at me_ and it's _freaking me out_, and _oh God_ _he needs to look away_!

I lurch forward the same instant he opens his mouth to speak, eyes hard like I've never seen them, because this man is not so much _Edward_ as he is _Riddler_ and right now I only know one way to stop a riddle.

_Don't let it be said_.

My arms lash out to slap his restraining hands away even as my forehead collides with his chin. We both stagger, my eyes watering, but I force my head up just in time to meet his down turned face. Lips touch and, horrified, I bite down.

He flinches, eyes shutting in a grimace.

It's all the reaction I need and I'm throwing open the door, speed walking down the stairs and across the lobby, relieved to see Detective Gordon nowhere in sight.

I'm cursing myself as I fade into the afternoon crowd, rubbing blood from my mouth.

I strip and burn the days' clothes at the first opportunity, feeding the red beanie into the flames of a convenient street fire pit.

I've made a mistake and my only hope is that he'll forget.

Never mind how much one E. Nigma _loves_ puzzles.


	7. Almost Funny

The apartment is a tiny, one room affair, more like a hotel room than an actual living space. But it's cheap, and the landlord asks no questions so long as the rent comes on time.

It's all mine.

Something about saying that makes me ridiculously happy, even with all the trouble I had to go through to make sure the owners remember I live there. There're documents in their office and notes on their fridge; I even have an automatic greeting sent from my new email address every three days, just to be safe. And though I loathe the idea of leaving a paper trail, it's necessary if I want to put down roots.

The place is empty and rancid, typical for the Narrows, but there's a skip in my step as I pull on some gloves and take out the bleach.

Cleaning has never been so satisfying.

* * *

Sionis Steel Mill is a hive of activity; the mass of production and mad scramble for contracts the only thing keeping it afloat. Mr. Sionis, the lovely benefactor of this establishment, can be heard all the way down in the loading bay, his furious yells throwing an ominous silence over the cowering workers.

Everyone knows what happened Christmas Eve; how that freak, The Joker, took down The Black Mask. How hard he fell. The only thing keeping Sionis from folding is the damage done to the city and the fact that his mill is the closest and most convenient supplier. And with New Years already past and gone, repairs on the Gotham Pioneers Bridge need to be completed ASAP.

Mill workers have long hours with few breaks and little pay. It's dark and grimy and far from a safe environment. It's also a great place to find work, shady or otherwise.

I am a backroom stocker, unloading supplies off the trucks and wielding my pallet jack like a pro. I'm paid by the hour and only for the days I show up. I can be easily replaced, so I work like a mad woman. I want them to _feel_ _it_ when I'm gone.

I'm careful to avoid any contact with Black Mask, to the point where I go out of my way not to be in sight whenever he makes his appearances. The man's trigger happy, shooting anyone who's not fast enough to get out of his way, even the temps, who aren't part of his little fan boy club.

Also? I'd prefer if he didn't notice a woman in his ranks.

The guys on the floor are not so bad. They're too busy trying to make a living to make an issue. Mr. Sionis's goons on the other hand? Chauvinistic pigs, the lot of them. I've seen Black Masks' assistant, and secretary she is _not_. So I wear oversized clothes, triple my sports bra and make sure my face in covered with sweat and soot like the rest of us dirty heathens. At best, I look like a fresh young boy. At worst, a very unattractive woman. The work is hard and, quite frankly, horrible.

But the _things_ one hears…

"They say the Bat took out an army of men! No joke! Swooped outta the dark like a livin' shadow!"

"Penguin looked happy. I hear he's raking in the dough."

"What about Zeus? He's got a '_lightning rod_'. Hehe."

"Almost got nailed the other day. That Gordon's getting cocky."

"The Joker did _what_?!"

"Shut up, man! You wanna die?!"

It's almost funny how much people talk when they think no one is listening.


	8. Just Because

I went to confessions once, in the beginning. At the old church on Board, where Park Row meets Amusement Mile.

Crying, I told the priest everything. How I was liable to disappear, how even this conversation wouldn't be remembered, how much I didn't want this place to change me, even though I could still feel it happening, like slowly chipped ice.

He told me that it didn't matter if other people forgot. That what was important was my own memory. That if I really had no other options, maybe I should make a compromise. Just take what nobody needs. Forgotten things. Lost things. Because while there's a lot of stuff out there that people want, it's not necessarily what they need.

He told me that moral ambiguity never helped anyone, and that if I was serious about trying to stay clean in a place like Gotham, I needed to stick to my guns and be prepared to make the hard choices. _It would not be easy_. Just stay safe, be careful and keep my head down. Trying is the most that anyone's ever done and for me? It would have to be enough.

Talking helped, and after we left the confessional I gifted him with the biggest, if watery, smile I could manage. The old priest smiled back and accepted my thanks, even if he looked a bit confused while doing so. I really hoped he wasn't dirty, like the police force, or under somebody's thumb, but chances were, he was, unwilling or not. It didn't matter, though. He'd said what I need to hear and listened, if only for awhile. I put some of the stolen money I had stuffed down my shirt into the poor box, just because.


	9. Hands On

The furniture is secondhand, bought at the great price of nothing. It fills the blank space of my apartment with the kind of character that turns a house into a home. I've collected bits and bobbles, knickknacks that to the uninformed seem useless, though they are anything but. A broken music box that hides a recorder, an antique mirror, clouded, but serviceable enough that I can see the door from anywhere in the apartment; even a wooden wind chime to hang over one the windows. All of them insignificant by themselves, but together a mass of noise making traps and secret keepers.

Call me paranoid.

The cupboards of my kitchenette hide more than a few sharp objects and I have a nice-sized cast-iron frying pan sitting innocently on my double stovetop. The fridge is tiny and will only hold a couple days worth of groceries, so I bought a small chest freezer and shoved it behind the love seat. The bed and bathroom just around the corner completes the place, and while not the most glamorous of layouts, it is the most open and will hopefully lend the illusion of space. I'm happy with how it all turned out and decide that, maybe, I can spend a night out on the town.

I don't dress up. It's freezing outside _now_ and with the sun due to set in an hour or so, the temperature's not going to get any better. Just jeans and a comfy t-shirt under my coat; add warm boots and a headband for my ears and I'm all set.

I make my way to the metro and from there to Amusement Mile. The dance club I choose is already in full swing, laughter and music streaming out of the place like it's about to burst from the seams. I'm smiling as I slip past the bouncers, pulling off my cumbersome jacket and shoving my snow apparel in a little used corner by the back entrance.

I'd never liked these venues. They were never fun, before. Now though? It was like being alive again. High on adrenaline, blood pumping to the beat; music so loud you can't hear yourself think. It didn't matter that people moved and danced around me without realizing I was there; each heated brush and teasing sway was like fire on my skin. Here, I could pretend that the cute Greek guy at the bar was talking to me, or that the nod of acknowledgment from that pretty little chick in the corner was actually for me. It was riveting to be surrounded by so much energy, to know that all anybody cared about was loosening themselves for a few hours.

It was nice.

Until I feel hands on my hips.


	10. Greed

Time stops. Sound ceases. Movement slows.

Every part of me is fixed on the points of contact. Contact that shouldn't even be possible without my initiation. The hands are large, with long pianists' fingers that curve over my pelvis and dig into the dips of my abdomen. I'm pulled back into someone else's hips, their chest against my shoulder blades. They're taller than me, that much I can tell, with lean muscle that contrasts sharply against my giving curves.

"Riddle me this…"

Time unwinds at the whisper, the smug satisfaction that makes me cringe. Hot breath exhales and something digs into the side of my face, but I can't move my head away. I almost don't hear him over the influx of sound.

"Tired pleas, forgotten, diseased. Locked away, forever and a day."

I don't know the answer. Is there even an answer? I can't answer it, can't think over the rushing in my ears, the _fear,_ and my newly discovered aversion to touch. Our bodies rock together in a false semblance of dance, his strokes mocking; grotesque. His grip is starting to hurt, hands tightening enough to leave bruises. It stings and I wish someone would just turn around and _see_.

I blink back tears, air shuddering in my lungs. My teeth clench.

And I shake my head.

He sighs, long and drawn out, disappointment and disgust lingering between breaths. His cheek moves, nose tracing a line on the skin between the shell of my right ear and my short, curling hair.

"Alright." He mutters, resigned. A hand slides up my waist to settle beneath my ribs, ready to snake out and hull me away. "I'll tell you."

A breath."It a-"

"Dead Man." I hiss, head snapping up, foot stomping down. The crunch of cartilage is sickening to one who's never heard it up close, and the shock of my heavy boot hitting his foot travels up my leg like an electric current. _Edward_ yelps and releases me, swearing as he cups a bloody nose. That's twice I've gotten him with a head butt. You'd think he'd learn.

I dart away, slipping through the people in the crowd who are only now stopping to stare at the man making a spectacle of himself. I race to the backdoor, snatching up my coat and throwing it on as I barge out into the dark alley beyond. The door slams violently against brick, the sound stark, and suddenly the wind is knocked out of me, my body flat beneath a ridiculously heavy weight.

"We got her!"

"Hold her still!"

"Where's the Boss?"

I thrash, kicking and clawing. My eyes still haven't adjusted to the dim and I can feel something very wrong with the way I am breathing.

I'm lifted roughly, arms pined to my sides and _fuck_ _that_ _hurts_.

"God damn fucking idiot! Put me down! _Ow!Fuck!"_

They're dragging me to the end of the alley and is that a black van? Why is it always a black van? How obvious can you get?

"_Fuck!_ Rape! Kidnappers!_ Ow! You little shit! Let me go!_" I scream, trying to be as loud and noticeable as I can; because that's what they teach you, right? In rape class? _Right_?

"She's got a mouth on her, don't she? Maybe they'll let us put it to good use later?"

I don't know which one said it, but I suddenly find myself wanting to kick him in the balls so hard he pees blood for a week. The guy holding me answers by putting a gloved hand over my mouth and I bite down, _hard_, but the material gets in the way.

"Damn, didn't we bring anything for this? Chloroform, ether? Something?"

One of them opens the van doors and the space looms before me like a hungry mouth, all void and blackness. I grab hold of my kidnappers' thumb and twist back until he jerks in pain and I fall onto hard asphalt, slicked with snow and ice. The impact sends a sharp spasm across my ribs and I feel it through the adrenaline like a hot brand. My grey headband falls out of one of my coats' pockets, unnoticed and forgotten.

I inhale past the twinges of pain and let out a high, _piercing_ scream, the likes of which you only hear in horror movies and operas.

Then something is jabbed into my neck and this weird rush of numbness washes over me like a nightmare, all sick with wrongness. There something on the floor of the van, stark against the beige carpet and I grab it as I try to stand, but everything's moving, and I find myself using the side of the car for balance.

I swing and the men jump back, hooting and cat-calling.

"Haha! This one's got fight!"

"Ooo! Yeah, baby! Just like that!"

"Just get her in the car already! Boss's gonna be pissed."

I look up from where my head has lulled, pulling the wooden baseball bat closer even though I can barely keep my eyes open.

"_Fuck you_." I spit, furious and terrified.

My narrowed eyes catch on something in the distance; a column of light that falls from the open doorway at the end of the alley. It's the back entrance and two people are standing there. One is a red-head with a black splotch down the front of his green vest, _Nigma_, and the other is…

Someone who's a greedy_ son of a bitch_.

Money exchanges hands.

And I lose the battle for awareness.


	11. Flowers, Leather and Blood

I'm tied to a chair.

It's a metal one, with hard, industrial lines and thick cords that bind my legs and knot around my wrists. My arms are pulled back at an uncomfortable angle, my coat nowhere to be seen. I'm cold and my t-shirt is hardly any help. My ribs ache with each shallow breath.

There's a trend to these people. It's got to do with _bondage_ and _leather_.

The snicker leaves me before I can stop it. This _really_ isn't funny, but pain has always done weird things to me. I'm just having a nervous reaction to a very uncomfortable situation. Obviously, I'm at the laughing stage.

It looks like I'm in an empty supply room of some kind, with a faded, yellow 70's lamp swinging eerily overhead. I wouldn't call the place lovely, but it's got charm, in an _end-of-the-line_ kind of way. There's a suspicious looking dark splotch on the cement floor that leads to a tiny drain in the far corner. I eye it tentatively, before a soft grunt pulls my attention away.

I nearly jump when I notice two men standing on either side of the rooms' only door, backs stiff and arms stiffer over the automatic weapons they're holding. For a moment, I'm convinced that they're staring right at me, _seeing_ me, but then the gaze of the guy on the left flickers. It slides over me, up and around, but can't quite seem to settle. It fixes instead at a point somewhere over my right shoulder. The other one just stares in my general direction, as if glaring at the area is enough to _will_ me into existence.

It makes me wonder what they see: an empty chair, with bonds holding themselves up, or a flash and blur, something glimpsed, but then forgotten?

I cock my head, wincing when the muscles between the nape of my neck and my shoulder size. The puncture area is probably black and swollen. When I carefully rotate my head, I'm able to notice a camera in the far corner, clear as can be. The situation is dire, beyond dire, but I'm finding it hard to care. A strange apathy has gripped me, probably the last dregs of whatever drug they used to put me out. It's fading quickly, though, and I'd bet a hundred bucks that as soon as someone walks through that door, my heart rate's gonna have a field day.

Time passes without definition. The guards' shift, nervous, sheepish even, but like good little puppies, they stay put. My stomach grumbles and the men startle, hands tightening on their guns, before they relax, chuckling. They don't really believe I'm here and that's _just perfect_. Maybe if I'm _really_ quiet, I can-

The door slams open in a rush and, as predicted, there goes my heart.

"You, miss, are one hard girl to find."

It's The Penguin.

Damn my tired inclination to wander aimlessly at night.

I swallow.

"It wasn't me." I croak.

Oswald looks unconvinced. In fact, he's carrying on as if I hadn't spoken; keen eyes locked on me like a bird of prey.

Damn my tendency to equate everything the man does to winged, fathered mammals.

"Bring it in!" He demands, looping his umbrella impatiently over a wrist. There's a scramble and a squeak of wheels, and then a tiny box Tv is rolled into the room, extension cord trailing behind it. It flickers on after a hastily pressed button, a scene buzzing black and white.

It's the aquarium.

"This," A nasally, horrid voice points out, "is security footage from January 14, approximately 3:56 a.m."

I'd know that conceited voice anywhere. I turn from the watching bird-man, snarl already in place.

"_You_."

The bastard is smiling, giddy even. I'm vindictively satisfied by the purple bruises forming along the arch of his nose. I hope it swells.

Penguin gestures, thin fingers tugging odd black lenses from his face to place within a vest pocket. Without them, his features appear more shallow, grey and colorless.

"_Watch_." Nigma taunts and presses another button.

The screen fast forwards, hours of nothing going on forever and ever and then-

There is a flicker of grey.

The video slows as Nigma turns a dial. For fifteen minutes the same spot flickers, grey then white, then grey. The Penguin shows up, in all his shuffling glory. My mouth goes dry. My aching lungs snag.

And I see myself.

Just for a minute. It's plain words are spoken and I wince when things go from cordial to confrontational, my form moving casually away into…nothing. Just…gone. I don't know how to feel; what to say. My face is there, recorded. It's wonderful, and amazing, its-

-an absolute disaster.

"_Five weeks_. You eluded me for _five weeks_. I-"

"Not _now_, Riddle." Penguin snaps, coming forward with a firm glare.

Riddle sniffs at the threat, then winces. A smirk dies on my lips the instant I feel the cold tip of Penguins' umbrella beneath my chin, against my throat.

"I don't remember this. And I don't remember you." The cane tilts my head upwards. He clicks, finger wagging in a mild mannered scold. Then his voice drops.

"That doesn't sit right with me."

I shift uncomfortably, every blot and bruise on my body crying with the movement. Like last time, I choose to be honest.

"It just happens."

His umbrella lifts from my skin and he eyes it contemplatively. A moment later and all I feel is _painpainpain_, burning hot against the left side of my face. Blood trickles from my mouth where my teeth have cut the inside of my cheek, the dark liquid dribbling down my chin to stain my brown t-shirt. My eyes are wide. The missing fear creeps in.

"I don't like when women lie to me." Metal brushes lightly against abused flesh. "Try, _again_."

I lick my lips, tasting copper.

"You won't remember." I rasp, unable to come up with an explanation.

The Penguin's head moves a peculiar twist, lips quirking. His crippled body coils-

And I flinch, gasping. "Because you can't! No one can! No one notices or remembers. You forget because I don't exist!"

"Fascinating." Nigma mutters, but my eyes are all for The Penguin. The Riddler moving closer is just background noise, the hired goons grim and blank faced. They see me now, I'm _sure_ they do, but even though my eyes plead, nothing changes in their stances. There is a hand gun pointed at me, the umbrella handed off. It aims down, at my legs and-

"Don't bother." Edward interrupts. His arms cross casually over his chest, the striped, green fabric of his folded cuff links contrasting nicely against the purple of his vest. It's a new one, I notice, not a drop of blood in sight. How long had I been out?

The Penguin raises an eyebrow.

"You know she's telling the truth. What's nowhere, but everywhere, except where something is?"

"Nigma. You know how I feel about your riddles."

He sighs, put upon. "Nothing. The answer is nothing. She's like the riddle. No history, no documents. The only thing I could find is a single file from a police report. With your security footage, there's only two known records of her in existence. I found her for you, but we had a deal, remember?"

The Penguin's eyes narrow in thought before the gun disappears and he's leaning against his umbrella again, the picture of frailty.

"Delete that and burn the file. You'll get her when I'm finished."

Nigma nods and leaves without a backwards glance, Tv trailing behind him. I look on, shuddering when the steel door snaps shut. I flinch when the Penguin speaks.

"He seems to believe that you can be useful." The man has moved closer again, standing in front of my chair. He leans forward, smiling.

"I'm inclined to agree." He straightens, cane tapping the concrete. His voice is a pleasant droll, comforting, gracious; _safe_. My face stings in reminder.

"You're going to work for me. Do what I tell you to do. Dance when I tell you to dance."

"No." The whisper leaves my chapped lips without my consent, thoughts unfocused. This is everything I was trying to avoid. I can't do this. I _will not_.

"No?" It comes politely interested and I look up, meeting his gaze. It's cold.

"I won't kill for you."

He hums, tisking.

My hips hurt, my face is on fire. I'm having a hard time breathing though the pain in my chest. I don't want to die. Compromise. _Compromise_.

"Information." I announce, belatedly.

There's a strange look on his face. I don't like it. "You'll be my snitch?"

I shake my head. "Snitch implies loyalty. I don't have any." I try to take a deep breath, but stop half way through. Sweat beads at my forehead and slides down the nape of my neck. I feel sick.

I swallow, trying to ground myself. "Kill me and you lose nothing. But keep me alive, and I'll be the best damn Informant you've ever had. Anywhere in the city you can't get to, _I can_." I pause to blink black spots from my vision. "My only request is that you keep me out it. I don't want know what you do with the information; I don't want part of your crew. Let me come and go freely."

Penguin sneers. "You want to be independent? And that's supposed to benefit me?"

"Yes." I gasp. Blood and saliva leaks from my mouth. Whatever is wrong is getting worse. I need to finish. I can't faint. I close my eyes, trying to stem the flow of dizziness. My voice is clipped, sure. "Once I leave this room, I'm _gone_. You won't remember this conversation and you won't remember _me_. That's the nature of what I do, what I am." I swallow back blood. "If I'm to be effective, I _can't_ be on a leash. There is no point in wasting your time trying to keep track of me. Just… let me go."

He exhales sharply, clearly impatient. His chin juts out in an action I can't see. "If I won't remember, how will I know you?"

"Please… I need-"

"_How will I know you?_"

Desperate brown eyes open, blinking up at him. "Give me something! _Anything_. Something you don't need, but will recognize anywhere." My head is lolling, bile rising in my throat. Oswald is close enough to touch, something held in his lean fingers. Over the fear and blood, the nausea and pain, I think I smell something completely out of place.

Floral and warm like…

Lilacs.

* * *

**AN: For those of you who haven't noticed, I've switched this story to be a **_**Batman: Arkham Asylum/**__**Gotham**_** crossover. The reason for the change is one word: Penguin. I've found that I rather like **_**Gothams**_** rendition of The Penguin, more so than any other I've seen. I've even changed chapter five: **_**Meeting a Bird**_** to reflect this. So while the setting of the story is still Gotham as seen in the video games, certain characters reflect more closely with their brother versions than the ones in the game. If you haven't watched Netfix's **_**Gotham**_**, I highly recommend it, for viewing pleasure as well as for significance to this story.**

**Ta!**

**~Delgodess**


	12. The Awkward Why

The bandages were tight around my bruised ribs, each step sending a lingering jolt through them as I was ushered to a back exit. I hissed softly through my teeth and rubbed at the blood flecks on my chin from where I'd bitten my cheek sometime in the scuffle earlier that night. Or was it morning? There was no way to tell in this dank hallway and no way of finding out from my silent, grimfaced escort. He wasn't anything special. Tall, heaving with muscle, thug-like. He kept his beady little eyes on me, which I ignored in favor of watching the paint-chipped walls go by, if only to shrug off the uncanny feeling of being watched. I breathed in carefully though my nose, the scent of blood and lilacs lingering as I readjusted the soft, silky fabric of the scarf wrapped round my neck. The man who'd patched me up clucked disdainfully when he'd seen my injuries, then promptly paled when he noticed what I was wearing. The flowing piece of fabric was significant, though how and why hardly mattered in the face of my imminent release.

I hadn't seen hide or hair of the Rouges since waking up on an uncomfortable cot, which was more odd than a relief. Instead, I'd been checked over, handed a questionable bottle of painkillers and shuffled out the door. Still groggy, I had yet to think of my agreement in any detail and was more than happy to stew in silence.

We turned a corner and approached a metal door, which prompted the man behind me to edge around my shivering form to unlock and pull it open. A blast of bitterly cold wind flew into my face, snow flurries whirling along the crumbling cement. He gestured and I complied. Then the door slammed shut, locked tight behind me.

I sighed as best I could, stiffly trying to shut my returned jacket. Alas, I wasn't having much luck.

I felt blank, hollow. What do you do, what do you _think_, after you'd been mugged and kidnapped? What were you supposed to feel?

The lamp light overhead flickered, sending streaks of shadows around me. I was in a dirty back alley (again), and just beyond the horizon I could see the tiniest speck of pre-morning light. Gingerly, I stepped down from the stoop I been lingering on, limping slowly towards the nearest street and trying, with much difficulty, to spot any ice laying in wait to take me out. Thus preoccupied, I didn't see him.

"I _knew_ it!" Came the harsh whisper.

Startled, I flinched, head whipping up to face the silhouette lingering in the shadows just off to the side of the alleys entrance. I take in the dark green suit jacket, the gloves, the _god_ _damned_ _bloody_ glasses- and I scowl, gripping at my chest to stiffly encourage more oxygen to my aching lungs.

Blank faced, I step past as quickly as I can manage, desperate to find a taxi working at this hour. Nigma follows, mutt-like. His voice has a disturbingly giddy ring to it.

"When you answered my riddle I _knew_, I _knew_ it had to be you. I'd worked on that one for _ages_ and-"

"I didn't." I interrupt flatly, stopping a few yards down the block at a conveniently placed bus stop. I wonder if I should tell the authorities to stop providing transportation for their criminals, but brush it off as wishful thinking. Instead, I stare at the bus schedule musingly, lamenting my lack of a watch.

"I- what?" He stammers, nearly speechless. Pity. And it had been so close too. I glance at him, annoyed.

"I didn't answer your riddle."

"Yes you did." He insists, strange gleam in his eye, hands fidgeting. It's beginning to freak me out, enough that I'm starting to come out of my apathy-induced haze. "You said: _Dead Man_, right? That was-"

"No." I draw out the word, because, _obviously_, he's stupid. It occurs to me that it just _might_ be the other way around, but I've had a _very_ shitty night, and the guy's being a _tad_ irritating. Freaking pervert kidnapper. I don't hesitate to be insufferably blunt. "I was just thinking what you would be if you didn't get your hands off my ass."

There's an awkward pause between us and I click my tongue, whishing for a bus, a taxi, _anything_, right about now. Then-

"Fickle flower flows fleetingly over water wandering where it wills. Up, down, turned around. Glad one, then sad one, then none."

Seriously? Did I not just say that I have _no idea_ what- wait. I _might_...

_No_. My face twists. I'm not going to do it. I open my mouth-

He perks up intently-

-and all that comes out is a lackluster question. "You got the time?"

His expression skews and he frowns, almost petulantly. It's hard taking him seriously when he looks so much like a brat, but then a nerve in my sore leg pinches and I'm reminded of how dark it is and how alone I am with a man who eventually goes on to play riddle games with the freaking _Batman_-

Yeah. Careful girl.

"Ten to five." He mutters halfheartedly and I turn in time to see him tugging his sleeve back over a large wrist watch, the barest hint of a green question mark peaking through the glass. Inwardly, I roll my eyes. _Good_ _god_. It's happening already. Am I detecting a hint of suicidal sarcasm on my part? I must have hit my head somewhere along the line.

"Thanks." Shifting my freezing feet so I move slightly away from his despondent (I think) form, I stare off into the gloom, awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

Minutes pass agonizingly slow and I rub my arms, blow on my fingers and fix my blond hair (it's _filthy_) just to pass the time. Then something occurs to me.

"Hey." I croak. Swallowing to clear my raspy throat, I try again, louder. "_Hey_!"

He looks up from where he's been glaring at the snow covered sidewalk, clenching his purple- gloved hands and grinding his teeth. The look he fires at me is scathing, barely any recognition in his posture, a stranger to me already, but I have to ask while I've got his attention.

I swallow. "Why'd you help me?"

Really, I want to ask him what he _wants_, but one does not simply as the Riddler such an open-ended question.

Green meets brown as our eyes lock and something very strange happens.

His face begins to color.

Its light enough to see clearly now, and I watch, silent and incredulous, as the cherry travels quickly from his cheeks, down his neck and beneath his collar. My gaze snaps back up to his face, only to catch its fleeting appearance at his ears before they're covered by his wavy red-brown hair and that ridiculous bowler hat.

_My_. _God_.

He's blushing.

He _can't_…

Heat suffuses my face. Suddenly I recall that one E. Nigma hadn't had much luck in the romance department before, _well_… he went criminal, what with him bein' an awkward duck and all.

And I'd kissed him. Sort of. Unintentionally.

_Damn_.

Where was that damned bus?!

Five on the dot (or so the side of the vehicle said), and the bus rattles into place, stopping with an overly loud hiss. It breaks the self-conscious silence waving between us, and I lurch forward, the rubber of my boots making a horrible squeaking sound.

Suddenly he's shoving something at me before I can make the first step, and a hand comes up to clutch it as I teeter, the other reaching up to balance myself against the bus door.

"For the bird." He grunts and already I can see his gaze wavering, darting off to the side, words almost coming out as a question, confusion beginning to cloud his features.

Then the emotion drops and he's just another familiar blank-faced zombie, scowling at the world and its inadequacies.

I sigh to the sound of Edwards footsteps waking away from me, elated to be free of his presence, relieved that he forgot and…disappointed.

I'd been awhile since I'd talked to someone. It'd been…nice. Sort of. Sans kidnapping.

I bite my lip, ignoring the bus driver's impatient huff. I have seconds to get onto the bus before the pudgy man forgets and drives away, but something is nagging at me.

I make my decision.

"Hey!" I shout at The Riddlers' back and he starts, nearly a half a block away. He swivels, head tilting as I hop gingerly onto the first step of the bus, pushing the resisting door as it tries to close.

I see the arrogant quirk of an eyebrow and grin, all teeth and smugness.

"The riddle! Its: A Woman."

Then the sliding door shuts in my face and I'm one bus ride closer to blessed, _glorious_ sleep.

* * *

**AN: No, its not a Riddler/OC romance. Eddie's just awkward.  
**

**~Delgodess**


End file.
